The Black Eyed Peas Make the Baby Jesus Poop His Diapers

I was still living in Vegas when I first wrote of my hatred of the Black Eyed Peas, but I never in my worst nightmares thought they'd shit the bed in such a spectacular fashion. That Super Bowl halftime was the worst thing I've ever seen, ever. As the Peas raped music like they were Ben Rothlesberger and music was a boozed up co-ed, a global audience watched in abject horror. Survivors of devistating earthquakes, despot-lead ethnic cleansings, and decades of unimaginable famine turned away in disgust. Haven't those people suffered enough? We had to drop the fucking Black Eyed Peas on their humble village and the one working TV they had gathered around?

Back in America, at the party I attended, there was a collective gasp from those in their thirties as Fergie ruined their precious teenage memories by throat-fucking Sweet Child O' Mine; complete with Slash and his obvious mounting debts on lead guitar.

Why is Fergie famous? She sounds like a goat being waterboarded. And honestly, if she was a stripper at a mid-level titty bar you might throw a few bucks at her stage, mostly out of pity; and later she'd sit at your table and weepily talk about losing custody of her children until you bought her a drink made with well gin. Then when it came down to getting a lap dance you'd pick someone younger with a meth addiction in its infancy.